Easier Said Than Done
by Eveilae
Summary: [Futurefic] Let's meet up again, they agree. It's easier said than done, they realize. Family reunions aren't ever happy when the family consists of a ronin, a criminal and a prostitute. [character death, cursing]
1. Fuu Realizes

_I do not own Samurai Champloo._

**Amatsu Mikaboshi is the "god of evil," according to Encyclopedia Mythica.  
This was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but I lied to myself. I'm going to have a Mugen part after this, and possibly a Jin chapter.**

**Chapter One**

**Let's meet up again. It's easier said than done. At the end of the line, Fuu realizes this.

* * *

**

I'm old.Kami damn it, I really am. I throw things at all the kids that even mention my age, but inside I know it as well as they do.

I am wrinkly, my hair is thinning, and I am weakening painfully. Even worse, I am dying.

My mother died slowly, as my father probably did as well. That is, before that _bastard_ killed him. And now it's my turn. It makes me sad, though, to think I'm the last one left. My mother, my father, me. Who will go around to the kids, and tell them about the adventures of Fuu, Mugin and Jin?

I remember telling that man—memories grow dim after so many years—that I wanted to die beautiful. I was so _naïve_, then. I know what he means now. He told me—I remember this perfectly for once—that there was no such thing as dying beautiful. Death is ugly, like a smudge on a perfectly printed parchment.

Having had so many brushes with it throughout the years, I recognize it by _smell _now. My little one-room cottage _reeks_ of it.

I never married. Fuck, I rarely even had the simple pleasure of _sex_. At seventeen, I was once _again_ in a brothel, paying off a few debts. Only this time, there was no Mugen or Jin to bail me out. I remember thinking that when I really need them, they aren't there.

It wasn't so bad. I mean, it was _horrible_, but it could have been worse. I could have been beat mercilessly by a deranged maniac with a blade in his hands—again. It kind of got me off sex for quite a while, though. It also was a slap in the face, courtesy of the world. Mugen and Jin were gone, and I had begun to rely on them too heavily, anyway. No more betting, and it was time to get myself some damn _talents_.

Bottomless stomach did not count.

I managed to get myself a good bit of training on my travels, from different students of nearby dojos. Some were kinder than others, offering the lessons for free. A couple were not quite so . . . charitable. The fact that the brothel stripped me of my petty modesty . . . well, I'm still not sure about whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. I undressed myself for them, and felt nothing.

I barely remember a time when I blushed furiously when a man caught the merest flash of my pale, milky skin.

Anyway, my skill level was—is—nowhere _near_ Mugen's or Jin's, or in fact, that of practically _any_ of the opponents they beat. But it was enough to keep pickpockets, smugglers and perverts at bay. Once I even got hired as a bodyguard, but it was just while the woman traveled to Edo with child. I sharpened my blade only on fish bones, that time.

I never stayed at one spot for long, that is, until I caught this fucking disease, and my legs don't carry me so well anymore.

I wonder where Mugen and Jin are at this moment. Why them, I wonder, staring up at my straw ceiling. I've had plenty of friends and companions and lovers over the years. Why am I thinking back on the men I haven't seen since I parted company with them nearly half a century ago?

If my math is right, that is. I've never been good at math.

Mugen and Jin. Yes.

They're probably dead. Well, Mugen, at least. He's a wily little asshole—or was, and I don't see him _changing_—but even one such as him makes mistakes, and he was always too reckless not to.

Jin? He probably met up with his escaped whore after her three years of solitude. Maybe they had children. I chuckle at the image of hard-ass Jin cooing at a couple of thin-faced, pasty children.

And Mugen? With children? This is worth an entire laugh, even though I end up sitting up just so my breakfast can come climbing back up my throat. I can see Mugen throwing his own children into a well as punishment for waking him up from a particularly vicious hangover.

I'm exhausted, and I don't expect to get any better. Is life worth living if I can only manage to wring out a couple more days before I bite the dust? I might as well use this strength now, while I have it, to carve out my own heart. Traumatize the poor child that comes in here for a story. I've grown too much like Mugen in my old age, really.

I might as well, I think to myself, reaching over with an outstretched arm to grip the jaded brown grip of my secondhand katana.

"Old fart!" comes the 'affectionate' nickname the children of this particular town have dubbed me with. I postpone my thank you speech a few minutes while I hear what this child has to say.

"Have you heard the news? _Someone_ is coming!" Like that could be _any_ vaguer.

"Really? Amatsu Mikaboshi, perhaps, come to wreck havoc?" I like messing with the heads of these impressionable kids. It is odd, though, to see no recognition when I speak of things that once were common knowledge. Christianity isn't exactly _prominent_, but it is far more accepted and common than it was in my childhood. "The god of evil," I add quickly, before the boy can ask who I'm talking about.

"No! Anyway, he doesn't _exist_. My mother says that you're a heretip—"

"You mean _heretic_, don't you?" I correct casual, barely paying him any mind at all. I don't really _care_ what any of these people think of me. Most of them wouldn't know one side of a sword from another. They have no _place_ judging me.

"Yeah! And that you're going to burn in hell for your lies and . . ."

At this I laugh, long and hard. Oh, this is _classic_. This woman thinks I'm going to burn in hell for . . . lying? How ridiculous. How _utterly_ ridiculous. "Oh, boy, I'm going to burn in hell for much more than _lying_." I can barely get the words out before I'm hacking, like there's something lodged in my throat, but I know very well that there isn't.

Eventually the boy leaves me, bored.

I wonder if I should really kill myself, as I realize the katana is still at my side. Isn't that the coward's way out?

But there's nothing more I can do. I can barely leave this room; what kind of life is that for me?

Fuck this. I plunge the katana into my chest. As I feel myself dying, the red spreading, staining my kimono, I wonder how long it will take for someone to find my corpse.


	2. Mugen Realizes

_I do not own Samurai Champloo_.

**Thank you don'tbreakme for reviewing, and for the correction. Yes, I did mean century, and it's been fixed. C'mon, review and make my day. **

**Chapter Two **

**Let's meet up again. It's easier said than done. With a shovel in his hand, Mugen realizes this.

* * *

**

People always ask me, _how the fucking hell did y'manage to _live_ this long, you shitface? _Maybe not in those _exact_ words, but you know what I mean. But really, I'm beginning to agree with them. Someone should've shoved their sword deep through my chest by now. Not that there haven't been those that have _tried_, but . . .

Hey, I've got a lucky streak.

But even _I_ can't have much longer left. I don't know _exactly_ how old I am, but old enough for my hair to begin graying and falling out, and enough for my hands to shake whenever I pick up a sword. I probably can't even protect myself from some arrogant prick who thinks it's fucking fun to pick on the old people.

My aim's still _killer_, so I could probably throws a large rock at his head. Hopefully knock his head clean off, if it was big enough.

I've been avoiding big towns—there are still people who might hold grudges with me, and in my state I can't fight them off. So this quiet place is logically my next location.

I'm greeted like some honored guest; it's almost _scary_. How the fucking hell did these people know I was coming? Are they psychic?

Some of these kids even ask me for a story. A story! Do I look like the kind of guy that tells his grandchildren about princesses and heroic priests? Do I look like the type to even _have_ grandchildren? _Not_ likely. The looks on their faces is kind of pissing me off, so I decide to traumatize the little buggers. They want a story, after all.

I decide to tell them about the time when I saw Mukuro again, and we went on the ship and he—

"We've _heard_ that one already! The old fart tells us it _all the time_. C'mon, be creative, mister!" What! Who the hell is telling _my_ story, damn it? I'm the main character in that one! Probably Jin, that asshole. He was always _jealous_ of my good looks and my luck with the ladies.

Old fart? That's probably Jin, right there! I can still kick his ass, even old! What luck! "Lead me to this _old fart_!" I announce loudly, getting up. Too quickly, apparently, and I grunt as something jerks in my body. I'm _definitely_ not lasting much longer.

These kids look happy to be given a task, and then lead on through the town, looking important. Some of the adults glance at me warily, as if I do not meet their expectations. I give them all the finger as I walk past, earning myself several angry yells and surprised gasps. Onwards I go, following the children until we reach some small, ugly-ass looking cottage.

"Jin-boy, you can't go around _stealin'_," I say in a loud, condescending tone as I roughly push open the door.

But it's not Jin in there. It's not even a _guy_. It's not even _alive_. "Get the _fuck_ out of here!" I scream at the kids, not to protect their 'precious little eyes' or to preserve their innocence. It's just 'cause I don't want anyone else seeing me break.

Fuu. If anyone had asked, I would have told them that I hadn't thought about her in a shitload of time, easy. But if I were an honest man, I would say differently, though. My mind's gone to that small, flat-chested girl of fifteen many more times than I think I know how to count. Although it would be fucking _gross_ if I still thought about her as a girl. _I don't!_ I'm smart enough to have a good, healthy imagination when it comes to this.

But I never thought she'd be _dead_. Damn, how did a guy like me outlive a girl like her?

Psh, I talk as if I have any idea what her life was like. I was only with her a little part of her life, anyway! I haven't seen her in _years_. For all I know, she became a whore, and later an hired assassin, and then passed herself off as a Christian nun.

It looks like suicide, to me, though. The position she's in, the way the katana is thrust into her chest. Why would she _kill_ herself? Was her life horrible and abusive after Jin and I left her? Did we abandon her? Damn it, I knew she was too young to go on her own! That hitman guy _had_ tried to kill her, after all! Maybe the imperial government has been after her all these years? Was she tired of the chase?

So _she_ was telling our story. It's odd how it never occurred to me that it was _Fuu_. I like to think of Jin as more likely to do something devious than she was. Fuu's too . . . Fuu-like.

I lean over her corpse. Thank Kami there aren't any _mirrors_ in this place; I don't want to see my face. Feeling it inside is more than enough. Fuu's not _cute_ anymore, it's almost sad. There's something there that might have once been beauty, but I can't tell anymore. Even so, she's an old friend, one worthy of at least _some_ respect. I strip her of her bloody kimono respectfully, and I try to wipe some of the blood off of her with it.

I wonder if I should tell Jin Fuu's dead. We could have her our own little version of a funeral, I suppose.

Is this what he meant all those years before, by _sentimental_? Kami, it's like a fucking _disease_ then!

What do I do with her body? By the time I send notice to Jin, her body'll be rotting, won't it? That will be one thought I don't want connected with Fuu. The smell of a decomposing body.

I'll bury her, then, and just send Jin the directions to her grave. Leaving her—it?—lying there for the time being, I go outside and glance around, looking for a good spot to put her. Somewhere easy to . . . dig.

I find a shovel somewhere—it's probably someone else's but that's the least of my troubles. Digging takes a good part of the day. Once upon a time ago I could have easily managed to do it in less than hour. That's a long time ago, though. I manage to summon the strength to pick up her thin, frail, stiff body and bring her over to the hole I've dug, and throw her in.

A crowd has gathered, but all the adults have pulled the children back a 'safety' distance. People are afraid of me, an old man that couldn't fight them, even if I cared to. I don't care. It's finally sinking in that Fuu is dead. She kicked the bucket before I could talk to her again. She _said_ let's meet again! Fuck, why couldn't she keep her damn word? She always was a lying, manipulating wench, beginning from the whole heads-tails incident.

She could stay alive a _bit_ longer?

I . . . I had a few things I had wanted to talk to her about. Especially lately. I was finally getting tired of traveling around, and now I couldn't even eat and run, or hire myself as a hitman for some easy cash. Most women at the brothels were subtly disgusted with me now, not just 'cause of my age, but because of my scars.

And . . . Fuu is one of the few women I can see myself _talking_ to for something beyond money, sex and food. Could see, I remind myself, looking down at the corpse at the bottom of my sloppy, makeshift grave. With a depressed sigh, I pick up the shovel and begin pushing the dirt back in.


	3. Jin Realizes

_I do not own Samurai Champloo._

**Thank you G-ka and don't breakme. You know seeing as how this story has 100+ hits, I feel I should have gotten more reviews. Or at least a good flame or two xD**

**Spoilers. But if you're reading this post-series fic, you know what happened anyway.**

**Chapter Three **

**Let's meet up again. It's easier said than done. Overshadowing a shallow grave, Jin realizes this.

* * *

**

It has been quite a while since I have journeyed. I waited for Shino a good, long time, working numbly as a man for hire. I earned a reputation for myself as the silent avenger, even though I rarely did anything as constructive as _avenge_. Most people brought me useless, petty matters, but there are always idiots with more money than they have use for.

And then I had Shino, and there was no more reason for anything. Not money, not travel, nothing. And we were happy, which was an odd enough emotion for me. Happiness; it tasted tart on my tongue.

Even when I sired three irksome children—I say this in the most fatherly way possible—nothing became jaded in our relationship. They grew; we raised them. I tried to train them as I was, but Shino was too soft with them, and they were completely unused to the harsh realities of the world. Even I tried to the shield them from these truths as best I could.

I did not let them encounter death, nor pain—to some extent. I wanted these children happy, even if it meant they would be ignorant and ill prepared. I was foolish.

The eldest, which I named ­­­­­Enshirou in honor of that man, was a good fifteen years old when it happened. Shino thought it would be safe enough sending this near-man with his younger brother to buy a few things she needed. But it wasn't. By some mistake or another, a man was offended. It might have even been better if a finger of ­­­ Enshirou had been cut off in payment, at least that way he would have realized what responsibility really meant.

But the man was cruel, and saw the weakness in Enshirou's face. Enshirou should have known that people take advantage of weakness, but in stupidity I had avoided that life lesson. The man cut down his little brother before his very eyes, and the blood pooled the street. Returning home, pale and not quite himself, the story finally came out. It became a shameful topic, and none of us were willing to talk about, but all felt they had a part in it. Shino, for pushing for the two of them to go in the first place; me, for allowing it; ­­­young Fuu for not having been there and Enshirou for obvious reasons.

When I came back home from my brief return to the role of the silent avenger, it was all different. The happiness we had once known had been eradicated and replaced with something weak and forced. Shino wasted away before our very eyes and Enshirou left home right after the funeral.

Fuu was always surprisingly like her namesake. She loved food and attention from men—even if she didn't indulge in it. So when she left to marriage an unorthodox samurai who bore an amazing resemblance to an old companion of mine—probably a child of one of his whores—I was not surprised.

But I was alone once again. So I left to wander, even though I was getting along in years. That's how I happened upon the grave. It was a small town, cozy and homely, and this made me an immediately outsider with my twin swords and stony exterior.

Asking around politely, I managed to gain a small bit of respect and answers in one try. "Well, old as _hell_, for one," a young boy answers lazily, sneaking what he obviously thought were subtle glances at my swords. He seemed rather impressed, if not a bit surprised that a man like me would own anything like them. "Eh, the little kids used ta go ta hear the most _amazing_ stories," he continues, a bit subdued. I realize _he_ was probably one of those children, but is reluctant to admit so.

Stories? Fuu had never been one for stories, neither had Mugen. "Most of 'em went without their parent's permission, though, 'cause she cursed wit' every other breath." She? So, if I am correct in my assumptions, Fuu is buried under about a foot of dirt. "Yeah, and we wouldn't have known she was dead if that guy hadn't come ta see her."

"This . . . guy. Who was he?"

"Eh, 'jus some _guy_. None of us had eva seen 'im before, but he knew her. Musta been from before, 'cause he seemed kinda hurt. A fuckbuddy, or sompthing?" His crude use of Japanese hurt my ears, but I plunged through, determined to find the answer.

"Did he carry a sword? Anything tattoos? Messy apparence? Geta?" The questions came out more urgently than I had planned for the to, and I take a deep breathe to calm my frazzled nerves.

The boy nods slowly. "Why? Didya know 'im?"

I don't know if I should answer. What does it matter, really? If Mugen really was here, there was no one he would have normally buried (unless he changed in a frightening amount) with such care and sentimentalism . . . except for Fuu. There had always been an underlining emotion between the two, well hidden inside the two of them. But I had traveled with them a good, long time and the veiled attraction is hard hide in a situation like that.

When Mugen let her go like that, years and years ago, I was surprised, but not very. Mugen had never obtained much intelligence and it probably had not even crossed his mind that he was letting something precious slip past him. Although I judged that Fuu had more intelligence than Mugen, she, too, had made the decision.

I wonder if Mugen saw Fuu before she died, or if his memories of her jumped from lithe fifteen-year-old to dead old woman.

"I knew them," I answer simply, and I end the conversation quickly.

Returning to the grave, I find it almost sad. We had all agreed, though silently, to not forget, to see each other again. We would have given our lives for each other, even Mugen, who had never felt ties to anyone or anything in his life, I think. But here we were, Fuu dead, Mugen dissolved once more into the crowds of Japan, and me. Standing in front of Fuu's grave, with Mugen's sword plunged above it.

I will probably never see Mugen again. It . . . would be nice, though, to remember times long past.

"Are you Jin?" Who would possibly recognize me in his small, semi-isolated village? I turn to face whoever spoke, only to be forced to look down. Her eyes are big, and her back hair is pulled up into a sloppy bun.

"Yes, I am." I am too old for pretenses; truth is so much easier than fiction.

"Then, her stories were true! Why . . . why didn't you come and see her?" Her small, youthful eyes are filling up with tears, but her words hit me harder. We agreed to meet again, but what had I done to make those words a reality? Nothing. Had Fuu looked for the two of us? I doubted Mugen would take the time for such an endeavor, but . . . I felt the bond we shared. It felt like family.

"I-I . . . "

There's no response that will make it better, that will bring back the years. I do not regret my family, the time spent with them, but . . . they were my first family. My parents dead before I could consider them anything, Mariya Enshiro betrayed me, the dojo discarded me, and even Yuki . . . who had been the one person I might have thought would not abandon me . . . tried to kill me. Fuu and Mugen were my first real family.

Was I just as bad, having forgotten about them?

"You still wear glasses? She said you didn't ever need them." That's just like Fuu, to announce that to all the world.

Eventually, the child wanders away, bored. I remain at the grave, silent and still. Just like before I met Fuu and Mugen, I am without master or companions. My daughter married, my son possibly following my own footsteps, my wife and Fuu dead, and Mugen . . .

I add my two swords on either side of Mugen's, and I walk away.

* * *

**You know, I should have mentioned this before. I am the absolute worst at endings. I just never know what to put that will reasonably close the story. An ending has to be worthy of everything behind it. Goddamn it, and mine just never are. Even if the story is crap xD**


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